Aldyth did not long give way to tears. She remembered that time was passing, and that she must prepare for the meeting with her mother. Slowly and with more deliberation than she often bestowed on it, she began to make her toilet. She took down and shook out her long, dark hair, brushed it till it shone like satin, then combed it straight back from her brows, and plaited it into a beautiful coil at the back of her head.
As she surveyed the effect, she smiled to think what a contrast her appearance presented to that of Gladys. "I should feel so untidy if I wore my hair in such a tangle," she thought; "and yet she looks very pretty so. I wonder if that is an Australian fashion."
With some anxiety, Aldyth put on her gown—a soft grey cashmere with a vest of pale pink. It had won much admiration from Hilda Bland, but now Aldyth felt doubtful about it. She looked wistfully at herself in the mirror.
"Shall I look old-fashioned beside Gladys?" she asked herself. "Oh, I do hope mother will like the look of me."
She smiled at the absurdity of the thought, but with the smile came tears. Were not mothers generally disposed to like their children's looks?
There was a tap at the door, and she opened it to admit her aunt. Miss Lorraine wore her best black silk and a dainty little head-dress of lace.
"Ah, you are ready," she said; "then we had better go across. It is half-past six."
"Shall I do, auntie?" asked Aldyth, anxiously.
"Do! You will always do, child," said Miss Lorraine, playfully. "Yes, indeed, you look very nice—far more suitably dressed than Gladys, in my opinion." And she kissed Aldyth.
After all, she told herself with secret pleasure, Aldyth was her child, and belonged to her far more truly than to that strange mother, just come across the sea.